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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26621605">the best worst case scenario</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/impossiblepluto/pseuds/impossiblepluto'>impossiblepluto</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>MacGyver (TV 2016)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>COVID, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Isolation, Sick Angus MacGyver (MacGyver TV 2016), Sickfic, respiratory infection</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 06:22:46</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,442</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26621605</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/impossiblepluto/pseuds/impossiblepluto</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Mac develops a fever and a cough on a flight home, prompting Phoenix Medical to place him in isolation. It's not Covid, but it's a few long, scary hours before those tests come back.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jack Dalton &amp; Angus MacGyver (MacGyver TV 2016)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>33</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>89</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>the best worst case scenario</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Please note, this story deals with Mac having a Covid scare, though it turns out he has a different respiratory infection. A few months ago, I wouldn't have considered writing this. Emotionally, I'm in a different place now but I recognize that it is still a very real, very scary situation. I don't go into a lot of detail, but absolutely no hard feelings if you feel like this is not the story for you. </p><p>Many thank yous to the title-creating artiste that is Pandi19 (waitingforthestarstofall) and to the many friends who encouraged me as I was whining and banging my head against the wall trying to write this.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>They’re better prepared than most. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Matty acts quickly, decisively, when the first reports make their way across her desk. There aren’t really any personnel that can be considered non-essential, and taking classified documents out of the building to work from home isn’t an option, but Matty opens satellite offices, assigning analysts to different secure locations to promote distancing of employees who still need to show up to work. The Phoenix labs switch gears from their current projects. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Masks are required in all Phoenix buildings, for all personnel for months before they are required widespread. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Agents who usually do double duty in a lab, as an analyst or as TAC team leader are relieved from those extra duties and encouraged to quarantine themselves with their teams between missions, and Matty tries to turn a blind eye to the shenanigans the get up to with their extra time off.<br/>
</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Despite the claims circulating that this virus is a hoax, and the discouraging feeling that no one is taking it seriously, the world does slow down, significantly, for a time. Even in the States.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The missions are fewer and farther between, which is a relief for the agents going into the field. Not just grateful for the extra downtime that’s an unheard of luxury in their line of work. Or even the relief at the reduced opportunities for exposure to the vrius, but every agent is subjected to a nasopharyngeal swab prior to departure and after their return, and it’s… not a pleasant experience.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Team Improvise had just returned from an overseas mission when the mandate first came down. Herded immediately upon arrival into an isolation room, demanding to stay together in the same iso room as Jack helpfully pointed out, they’d <em>“just spent eight, mind-numbingly boring hours in a tin can together. Practically sitting on top of each other, while Bozer practiced his magic tricks, if one of us has got the plague we’ve all got it by now, I’m not letting these kids out of my sight,”</em> and told to wait. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mac quickly glanced around the sparsely stocked room, the anteroom for donning and doffing personal protective equipment, and the large observation window before claiming one of the four chairs. Crossing his arms over his chest and stacking his ankles one on top of the other, he tipped his head back, resting against the wall while Jack began pacing the length of the small room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Five steps from one side to the other before he spun on his heel and headed back the other way.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s just a precaution,” Mac promised, not opening his eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack snorted. “Man, I hate super viruses and biohazards. They always want to lock you in a room just in case. Just in case you start bleeding from your eyeballs, or your brains leak out of your ears or you cough up a lung. And you’re just stuck there sitting and waiting for the worst.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“At least they’re letting us stick together,” Bozer remarked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Only cause they didn’t want to deal with Jack having a tantrum,” Riley smirked at him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, I’ve lived through the isolation thing a few times,” Jack shook his head. “I’m not gonna let a single one of you sit there alone and scared if I can help it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The door opened an Reese stepped into the room, covered from head to toe in a white jumpsuit, an aquamarine cone-shaped mask over her mouth and nose, and what looked like a clear plastic welder’s shield covering her face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How are you all feeling?” She asked, her voice muffled by the mask and she sounds like she’s shouting to be heard. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Was feeling better before I saw you walk in here dressed like an extra from ‘Outbreak’,” Jack grumbled. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s the monkey one, right?” Bozer asked, gaping in offense. “That’s the one you’re going to pick? ‘Contagion’ was way better.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, don’t get spicy. I agree. It’s just the first one that came to mind.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“‘Contagion’ was also more scientifically accurate,” Mac announced. “I mean, for a movie. They didn’t sacrifice science for drama.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, wow. Didn’t need to know that. Movie was scary enough without that little factoid.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m just saying…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know what you’re just saying but I don’t want to know what you’re saying.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mac chuckles softly shaking his head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, here’s the plan,” Reese said, interrupting the playful arguing, gesturing for Jack  to take the remaining seat. “I’m going to get a set of vital signs on you guys and then I’m going to swab the inside of your nose.” She held up the testing kits, as she stepped up to Jack on the end of the row, and efficiently took his temperature, blood pressure, and pulse. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack eyed the kit. “Okay, like a flu swab, I’ve done that. No big deal,” he sounded relieved. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sort of,” Reese countered. “It goes a little deeper. And by a little, I mean a lot.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack grimaced. “What’s a lot?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s going to feel like I’m shoving this into your brain,” Reese answered honestly. “It’s going to be uncomfortable. And I need you to hold still.” She opens the cylinder and extracts a long wire with what looks like a Q-tip on the end. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She placed a gloved hand on the back of Jack’s head. “Ready?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack growled but nodded his permission. Reese inserted the swab. And kept inserting. Jack’s eyes bugged out of his head like a startled animated character. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Son of a bitch,” he clenched his teeth as tears filled his eyes, forcing himself not to pull away. “You weren’t kidding. How long you gotta hold it in there?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ten seconds, sorry,” Reese apologized, withdrawing the swab and sticking it back into the cylinder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” Jack squeezes the bridge of his nose. “It feels like it's still in there.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come on, Dalton, set an example for the kids,” Reese said, labeling the test and sticking it into a biohazard bag before she changed her gloves and moved down the line. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, yeah, wasn’t… wasn’t that bad. Didn’t feel like you shoved a stick into my brain and wiggled it around or anything.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bozer grimaced as Reese prepared his test. “Is there a way to opt out of this. I’ve never seen anyone in real life make the face Jack just made. Not without CGI.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It ain’t so bad. I’ll hold your hand,” Jack offered, placing his palm face up on the armrest of Bozer’s chair, wiggling his fingers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bozer rolled his eyes, before slamming them tight. A moment later as the swab passed through his nasal passage, Jack gave a manly yelp when Bozer squeezed his fingers. </span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>Mac stretches on the couch, his preferred seat for flights home. His sleeping patterns are unpredictable at the best of times and he's unable to get much rest on in-fil flights or the missions themselves. The team unanimously decided that the couch is Mac’s on ex-fil. Even if he doesn't use it, no one else will. He rarely falls asleep on those flights either, but he’ll often at least attempt to rest. It makes Jack feel better. And today, the faint pulse of pain through his head makes him grateful for his teammates' mostly discreet consideration. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The cabin feels chilly. He shivers and pulls the fleece blanket up to his shoulders and sighs. Then frowns.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He takes a deeper breath, paying attention to the feeling of his lungs filling with air. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something is… off. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He takes another breath. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Could be the altitude and the pressurization of the cabin. He used to have trouble with headaches and airsickness in his early days as a DXS agent. That’s mostly resolved after years of flying but every once in awhile, especially if he’s fatigued he'll feel the uncomfortable twinge of pressure in his head. Or his lungs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sometimes, if he’s focusing on his breathing, he imagines he can feel the tight pull of scar tissue in his lungs. Like how it was in the months after Lake Como. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It happens when he’s coming down with something too. Maybe that chill he’s feeling isn’t the environment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He frowns and takes another deeper, measured breath that, when it hits his lungs, erupts into a coughing jag. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mac surges forward, throwing himself upright. He jerks the blanket up over his mouth, pressing his face into the crook of his elbow as his lungs spasm around an unproductive cough. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Panicked eyes land on Jack, frantically waving him away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No!” Mac barks around the tickle in his chest. “Stay back.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mac?” Jack freezes in the aisle, a few feet away, his face going pale as he watches Mac try to catch his breath. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Back up, you’re too close,” he huffs around a shuddering breath, his coughs finally slowing. Mac’s mind races as he gestures for Jack to move back again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack ignores him, taking a step forward, instincts to protect, to save, to comfort overriding any sense of preservation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please, Jack,” Mac’s eyes snap. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, yeah okay,” Jack agrees but only stops his forward momentum. He makes no effort to move further away. Without taking his eyes from Mac's pale features he orders, “Riley, Bozer, go to the front of the plane.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bozer exchanges a look with Riley over his shoulder where they stopped a few feet away when Mac yelled. “No. What about this whole, we stick together thing?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Riley nods. “We’ve been together this whole time anyway so…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Guys, please move back,” Mac looks up at his friends. “In case…” he voices trails off. He can’t say it. Doesn’t want to even think it. “Please.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack looks over his shoulder. “Just, for now, okay? Until we can figure out what’s going on here, just move out of spray range, alright?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re not out of range, Jack,” Riley counters, her eyes darting between her family, brow lowered with stubborn determination. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m as far as I’m going to get right now. The two of you, move,” Jack growls. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bozer catches her arm, face pained. And it looks, for a moment when he meets her eyes, that he’s going to follow her lead and continue their mule-headed crusade, until Riley’s face crumples with a small nod and they move slowly up the aisle to the front of the plane. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You should… sit on opposite sides,” Mac calls out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Riley freezes, her shoulders stiffening before she gives another small nod, stepping into the bank of seats, across the aisle from Bozer. She remains standing, leans against the curved wall of the jet, arms folded across her chest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright, hoss,” Jack pulls the first aid kit from an overhead compartment. “Tell me what’s going on.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You should move too, Jack.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ha, that’s funny. Like I’m going to leave you sitting alone back here,” he cracks the kit open, not making eye contact. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jack, I’m serious-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So am I.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If I’ve got it-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then I’ve got it too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What if you don’t? Please. Don’t make me worry that I passed it onto you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack searches Mac’s imploring eyes. “Damn it, Mac.” He takes half a step backwards and drops into a seat just skirting the edge of the six foot distance order. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you,” Mac mumbles, head dropping against the seatback with a sigh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You short of breath?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe?” Mac takes another deep breath, gauging how he feels. “I don’t know if I’m just focused on my breathing so that’s why it feels weird or if it’s actually… weird.” He sits forward again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And we can put a check next to coughing on that symptom list. Fever?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mac shrugs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack rifles through the kit, starting to stand with the thermometer in hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, just toss it over here,” Mac holds up a hand. With a small growl, Jack complies. Mac catches it easily, uncapping the probe and sliding a protective sheath over the end before popping it under his tongue. And they wait. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“When did it start?” Jack asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mac shrugs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is that an ‘I don’t know’ shrug, or an ‘I’m going to use the thermometer as an excuse to not answer’ shrug?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mac frowns and the thermometer beeps. “I wouldn’t risk you guys like that if I thought I was getting sick,” Mac says as he pulls the probe out of his mouth and reads it. His frown deepens.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“One hundred even.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” Jack nods. “Um, guess we should call it in.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Guess so,” Mac says, twisting the thermometer in his hands. “Should have had you all take your temperatures before I touched it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Suppose they will want to know about the rest of us too,” Jack looks to the front of the plane where Bozer and Riley are watching from over the seatbacks. “You two have any symptoms? Feeling feverish or short of breath or anything like that?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He watches as they take cautious, assessing breaths before denying any discomfort. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack turns back to Mac as he pulls out his phone. “Anything that makes you think it might not be… that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Like what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know? A rash, a wound you didn't mention? Or a weird bug bite or something?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not that I…” Mac tosses aside the blanket pushing up his sleeves to inspect his arms before adjusting his shirt to assess the skin of his chest and abdomen. “Nothing that I noticed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, yeah, okay, just thinkin’,” Jack sighs and initiates the call, putting it on speaker.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jack, what’s wrong?” Matty asks as soon as she answers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, Matty, yeah, we might have a problem. Might want to get Medical on the line.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What happened?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mac’s uh- Mac’s short of breath. Got a cough and a fever-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s low grade,” Mac interrupts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack rolls his eyes. “Says it’s low grade but it’s over a hundred.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, it’s one hundred. Exactly.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay," Matty interrupts the familiar performance of Jack worrying and Mac downplaying his symptoms. "I’m getting Medical on the line. What about the rest of you? Any symptoms?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nothing yet,” Jack mumbles glancing at his partner. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re all maintaining your distance, right? Even you, Jack?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, ma’am. Mac’s made sure of that.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The line clicks, indicating a triage nurse from Phoenix Med is on the phone with them, and reviews the information that’s already been relayed before asking additional questions. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fatigue?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mac shrugs, though she can't see him, unsure how to answer the vague question. “We’re on our way back from a mission. I’m… I’m exhausted but I don’t know if I’m more tired than usual.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The nurse hums. “Headache?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Mac admits, not meeting Jack’s gaze. “Mild, but present.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Any nausea? GI distress? Diarrhea?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Loss of taste or smell?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t…” Mac frowns sniffing. “I could smell the gum Jack was chewing earlier.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Without anyone getting close to you, can you get a set of vital signs for me?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack rummages through the kit. “Just a manual cuff in this one.” He holds it up with a stethoscope. “I could just-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Mac shakes his head. “Toss it over, I can do it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mac stares at the equipment for a minute, working out the logistics of taking his own blood pressure before he wrestles with the cuff, wrapping it around his arm and attaching the gauge to the band of his watch so he can read it. He pops the stethoscope into his ears and begins inflating the cuff. There’s a second round of wrestling, though much shorter this time as Mac positions the diaphragm of the stethoscope against the inside of his elbow and loosen the release valve of the cuff, listening intently.<br/>
</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s ninety- six over forty-eight,” Mac says, focusing on removing the cuff from his arm rather than Jack’s intense gaze. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The nurse hums again. “Are you having any dizziness or lightheadedness?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Mac replies, he turns his watchband so he can read the face, and presses his fingers to his wrist. “Pulse is one ten.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Kind of fast for you,” Jack says softly. “Especially just sitting there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The call ends shortly after, with instructions for Mac to take his temperature again in an hour, sooner if he starts to feel more feverish, and drink some water, and instructions for the rest of them to maintain their distance. Yes, Jack too. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mac settles back on the couch, pulling the blanket up around his shoulder again, and trying to ignore the scrutinizing gazes of his worried family.</span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>Six hours. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That’s how long they predict it will take to get the results back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s lucky for The Phoenix’s resources. He’s read reports of test results taking nearly a week to come back. Imagining waiting in isolation to hear if he was sick, and with what, makes him shiver. Or maybe that’s still the fever?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His fingers ghost over the tape securing the IV in his forearm. A smile plays on his lips a</span>
  <span>s he imagines Jack sitting next to him, scolding him with a sharp “leave it.” He’s heard it enough times over the years. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He lays back against the pillow, tucking his arm behind his head to remove the temptation to play with the IV cannula. Or the oxygen tubing that tickles the inside of his nose. Or the pulse ox probe clipped to his finger. The monitor turned towards the observation window so his care team can read his vital signs without needing to gown up and enter the room. His oxygen sats are… well it’s okay. On the low side of okay. Definitely low for him even with the scarring in his lung from the bullet at Lake Como.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The doc frowned as he listened to Mac’s lungs. Spending what sure seemed like a long time with his stethoscope pressed against Mac’s back, moving from one side to the other as he listened to Mac breathe. Kind of reminded him of the way the doc kept listening when he ended up with pneumonia after their flight home from Italy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And they saw enough on the X-ray to prompt an order for a CT scan. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He watched, strangely fascinated as Reese drew vials of blood, wondering if the virus was coursing through his bloodstream. She mentioned labs he wasn’t familiar with and she offered him reading material, looking concerned when maybe for the first time since she'd met him, he declined. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reese threaded her hand into his hair, holding the back of his head to keep him steady as she swabbed the inside of his nose. It’s no different than the other times she’s completed the test, but he looks down at the tip of his nose as she finishes and wonders if the tiny virus rests on the end of the swab. And she kept her hand in place on his head just a second longer than usual, giving his hair a quick, comforting brush before moving on. As though trying to make up for Jack’s ordered absence. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s really the first time in weeks he’s been alone. Team Improvise elected to quarantine together, as they were still on rotation. Mac’s house became their base of operation. Bozer pressed them all into KP duty. They played board games and had nerf gun fights. Jack taught Riley how to play guitar. And Mac woke most mornings to find his polar bear in the entryway dressed in new and different costumes, though none of his friends confessed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Despite protests, Bozer, Riley, and Jack were removed from the plane as soon as they landed. Mac watched as his friend’s temperatures were checked and they were hustled off to their own isolated transports. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m going to come and find you as soon as they let me,” Jack promised, stopping and turning over his shoulder as the medic prodded him forward, encouraged him to keep walking. “Or as soon as I can break out. Whichever comes first.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The television mounted on the wall is playing on mute, an old comedy that he recognizes but doesn’t have the energy for right now. Every other channel is reporting on the virus and doesn’t really have the energy for that either. There’s too much unknown. Too much speculation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tips his head back focusing on his breathing and counting the ceiling tiles. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s far from the first time he’s laid here in a hospital room, too exhausted to do anything except breath. Shot, poisoned, drowned, somehow, this is scarier. The unknown. And not even for himself, but knowing his friends are down the hall. That they’ve been exposed to whatever he managed to pick up. If they get sick, it’s his fault. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wracks his brain, wondering if there is a way that he could have been more careful. If he could have prevented this. He thought having them all together in the same house would reduce their risk, help minimize their exposure potential, but he wonders now if that was a mistake. A selfish mistake, his desire to have his family close, where he could keep track of them, keep an eye on them. Maybe it was less for them and more for him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He coughs again and rubs at the ache in his chest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Thoughts tumble through his brain. He’s been on a ventilator before, knows that particular discomfort, the fogginess of drugs to make it tolerable. Jack’s presence at his side was the only thing that kept him from losing his mind and fighting against the vent and the restraints. If he’s got <em>it</em>, they won’t let Jack in to see him, sit with him, offer him comfort. Not even at the end.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he’s grateful for that. He would never want Jack to take that risk, though he knows his partner would do it for him in a heartbeat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He always thought it would be a mission that would take him out. Something quick. Painful but quick. And though they always promised to go out together, Mac always knew deep down, he’d die alone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mac blinks hard against the morbid thoughts that have crept from the corners of his brain. The ones that Jack normally helps him keep at bay. His eyes prickle with unshed tears. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His phone buzzes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Glancing at the screen, he wipes his eyes and clears his throat before answering. Doesn’t want anyone to hear the fear in his voice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, Jack,” he makes an effort not to sound fatigued or short of breath. Though he’s craving relief from isolation and the turmoil of his thoughts, he doesn’t want Jack hearing it and breaking quarantine to find him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, kiddo, you doing okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, about the same.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You look a little pale. And I’m not thrilled about that oxygen tube in your nose.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mac frowns. Did Riley hack a video feed or… there’s a tap on the glass of the observation window. Mac’s head snaps up in surprise. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jack? What are you doing?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Told ya I was coming for ya,” Jack waves. “Nah, stay there in the bed, we can talk just fine like this.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you supposed to be out there?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They won’t let me in there,” Jack’s eyes narrow, and his eyebrows lower. He glances up and down the hall like he’s contemplating a break in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I mean aren’t you supposed to be quarantined? In case?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve got a mask,” Jack points towards his mouth. “I look like I’m scrubbing in for surgery or going to clear a house with asbestos.” He’s got a surgical cap over his head, mask over his face, and isolation gown wrapped around him. “I’ve even got booties. Can’t see ‘em from here though. And this whole hallway is in quarantine so anyone coming down this way would be wearing protective gear.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mac wants to protest, but he’s too relieved at seeing Jack, at not being alone that he doesn’t. “Are you okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yep. Don’t have a fever, no cough, no shortness of breath. They just swabbed us and drew some blood. They just want us to wait until we have results before they let us go. Which is fine because I’m not going home without you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mac smiles at Jack’s declaration. He hopes it’s the truth. He doesn’t want to think of the hellfire Jack will rain down if he has to go home without Mac. He feels sorry for Riley and Bozer dealing with the aftermath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now tell me the truth, how are you feeling?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My fever spiked when I got here but they gave me some Tylenol and... it feels like that’s working. I’m still, I don’t know-” Mac rubs his chest. “Short of breath I guess. Got a chest x-ray but they aren’t really saying anything yet.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And what are they not saying?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mac shrugs, sitting up and throwing his bare legs over the side of the bed to face Jack while they talk, ignoring Jack’s protests that he should stay in bed, stay covered up, and warm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry, Jack.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you mean you’re sorry?” Jack’s voice is sharp. “What are they saying? What are you trying to say?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, nothing, I just, this is my fault.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack frowns. “You been messing around with superbugs again? Thought we agreed we’ve had enough of the biologics for a good long while.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mac rolls his eyes. “That you’re stuck here waiting and getting Q-tips jammed up your nose.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not following.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because you were exposed to me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Kid, I’d be getting a Q-tip jammed up my nose either way. We always do after an op. It’s like the new ‘we survived and stopped the bad guys’ toast, just less fun.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, but it would just be protocol, not because they thought you might have… it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They aren’t ever testing us for fun. Any time we go in the field we’re risking exposure and they test us. Whether they think one of us has it or not.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But if I’m sick, I’ve probably been sick for a few days-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack's shoulders stiffen. “Are you telling me that you thought you might have felt sick for a few days? And you didn’t say anything. Mac, we’ve talked about that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Mac’s eyes widen. “I never would have risked you like that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re sure. Didn’t think maybe it was just a headache or a cold or something? Tried to push through it so you didn’t worry anyone?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, Jack. Not with everything. I wouldn’t risk you or Bozer or Riley. I’d tell you, if I felt like something was wrong.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack nods. “Okay then.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But what if I had it and didn’t know, and because you guys were living at the house, you were exposed to me and now you’re at risk.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where have you been recently?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mac shakes his head in confusion.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I mean where have you gone? Anywhere before this mission?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just the house, and that grocery run.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where you made a curbside pick up. That doesn’t even count.” Jack taps the window again, making sure he has Mac’s attention. “Mac, you invited us to stay with you because you were looking out for us. For our physical and mental health. Can you imagine me quarantined in that apartment the last two months? I’d have gone stir crazy for sure. “</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A smile twists on Mac’s lips. “Are you sure you didn’t?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack lets out a soft chuckle. “Not always, no. Thought you were going to throw me and Bozer out a couple of times.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Could have done without the Cutthroat Kitchen reenactments at four in the morning, but having you guys around kept me sane through all of this. I’m just… if any of you get sick because of me...”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you were exposed, it was on a mission and then it could have been any one of us that got it. Just dumb luck that it might have been you. And hoss, you’ve got the dumbest luck of any guy I’ve ever known.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mac gives a small huff of amusement. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Absolutely stupid luck. Held back and repeated second grade three times.” Mac can see Jack’s eyes twinkle with teasing behind the mask. “But having you around has made me the luckiest guy I’ve ever known. So you’re going to be okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mac swallows hard and gives a small nod. In another time, another scenario, that sentimental line might have garnered an eyeroll, but right now, Mac can’t help but hope Jack is speaking the truth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s getting pretty late,” Jack says gently. “With the time zone jumping and jet lag.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mac's heart drops. He tries to ignore the cold tickle of dread at the base of his neck that the thought of being alone, of trying to sleep, causes. He pushes it aside. He knows Jack didn’t get any rest on their mission either.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right," Mac nods, ignoring the growing pit in his stomach. "Yeah, you should go.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I meant you, hoss.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mac twists the sheet between his fingers. He shakes his head. “Not really tired,” he says with a shrug, not meeting Jack’s gaze through the window. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The silence looms and Mac looks up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t have to be afraid to go to sleep. I’m not going to leave you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can’t ask you to-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re not asking. Go on, scoot back under those covers, and put the phone on speaker.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jack,” Mac protests.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not leaving you, so you might as well just get yourself tucked in."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Despite himself, Mac dozes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A restless sleep. He never sleeps well in Medical. The pulse ox probe falls off his finger every time he moves, setting off a wailing alarm until he can find it and clip it on again. The IV line catches on the starchy linen. The plastic-covered hospital bed keeps him too warm, or maybe that’s his fever, which despite another dose of Tylenol hovers stubbornly a tick about normal. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The pillow crinkles in his ear as he turns and he groans in aggravation. They instructed him to sleep on his stomach, “proning” they called it, and offered an explanation he only half-listened to. Maybe in a few days, he’ll care about the science behind it. He hates sleeping on his stomach. It feels too vulnerable. Too exposed. Especially without someone there to watch his back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In frustration he flips onto his back, wrestling with the blankets twisted around his legs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shhh, easy, hoss, just rest,” a familiar voice whispers and a hand brushes through his hair. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jack, what are you doing?” Mac bolts upright. “You shouldn’t be in here.” He scrambles backwards on the bed to keep his distance. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s alright, hoss, it’s alright,” Jack’s eyes soften, it’s still the only part of his face Mac can see, above the mask but the gown, gloves, and booties are gone. “It’s just pneumonia. Never thought I’d be excited to tell you you have pneumonia.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Really?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The labs they were watching came back normal, decided your chest looked and sounded more like pneumonia. And the test was negative.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mac leans back against the pillow and runs a shaky hand through his hair. “Yeah?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Jack nods. “They’re still gonna keep you a couple of days, give you some antibiotics, but it ain’t the ‘rona.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mac feels tears prickling behind his eyelids. He swallows hard, nodding. “And you, Boze, Riles, you’re all okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re the only one who is sick,” Jack reaches out again, brushing Mac’s bangs back from his forehead. “And you’re going to be okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mac closes his eyes, soaking up the comforting touch, his fear dissipating with Jack’s presence. He was only in isolation a few hours, but he felt the loss of physical contact profoundly.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack places his hand on Mac’s forehead, thumb stroking the skin between his eyebrows. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are you doing?” Mac whispers. His eyes remain closed and he makes no effort to dislodge Jack’s hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shhh, just rest, hoss. Feels nice, doesn’t it? Kind of soothing?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A smile quirks on Mac’s lips. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was… I was pretty worried. Never had you in Medical where I couldn’t get at ya. I mean, in surgery I guess, but that was always knowing that in a few hours I could get my hands on you again. The not-knowing and the not letting me in here with you, I didn’t like that too much. Guess I just need a little reassurance.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mac opens his eyes, meeting Jack's. “I think I do too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good, that means for once you’re not going to be stubborn about this. Now, close those blues, alright. Get some sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can we go home when I wake up?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, I don’t make those kinds of rules.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’d probably sleep better there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You trying to con me onto your side, kid?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mac smiles. “You’re always on my side.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s true. Always at your side too. It’s where I was always meant to be.” </span>
</p>
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